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Generally, I don’t make resolutions. At all, but particularly around New Year. It feels like the absolute worst time to make any changes, big or small. Deep into winter and with dark afternoons (in the northern hemisphere, at least), with all the excitement of Christmas behind you, a cupboard full of leftover goodies and a fridge full of beer, with weeks to go until payday and no particular social events on the horizon to either look forward to or to act as a distraction? January the first seems like a really bad time to launch into a new diet, or commit to finally getting to the gym you joined in the middle of a particularly optimistic week back in late May but haven’t been to since, or to cut down on booze or learn to play piano or resolve to spend more quality time with your family (a family you’ve been stuck with for over a week and who were probably looking forward to seeing the back of you just as much as you were them).
I do, however, use the end of one year and the beginning of the next as an excuse to take stock.
I do, however, use the end of one year and the beginning of the next as an excuse to take stock. While I quite deliberately won’t usually make any big decisions (or even small ones), I do like to take a bit of time, put my feet up with a mince pie and a glass of something bad for me, and examine where I am, where I’m going, where I’d like to be and whether I need to initiate any course corrections in order to get there. Usually I don’t come up with anything too profound (often it’s ‘I am putting weight on’, ‘I am heading for seventeen stone’, ‘I’d like to not be putting weight on’ and the course correction is ‘Stop eating mince pies. After just finishing the one packet I still have in the cupboard.’)
…this is something that can benefit anyone. No matter who they are, or what they want from life.
This year, though, was slightly different. I did come up with something. And not only did it surprise me, but it was something I was able to put into practice and, with varying degrees of success, have managed to maintain over the ten months of the year we’ve had so far, and intend to carry on for the foreseeable future. And what’s more, this something that can benefit anyone, no matter who they are, or what they want from life. Allow me to explain.
In some ways, fear has been a big part of my existence. I wouldn't say I’ve lived a life defined by it, quite, but at many times over the years I’ve certainly viewed things through its prism.
It’s not that I’m a particularly pessimistic person, I don’t think. I’m not ‘glass half-empty’. I’m not ‘glass half-full’ either, to be honest. Perhaps I’m more ‘that’s the wrong size of glass’. So it’s not that I go through life thinking things will go badly. I don’t assume the plane will drop out of the sky or the gas cooker will explode. I don’t say Hail Mary three times if I see a black cat crossing a road after it’s broken a mirror, or whatever it is you’re supposed to do (though I do seem to attach more weight to the ‘look someone in the eye as you cheers them or you’ll get seven years bad sex’ thing, for some reason).
It’s more a fear of making a mistake, of getting things wrong. And the more mundane something is, the worse it seems to be. What if I’m wearing the wrong shoes? What if I do karaoke and everyone laughs at me? What if I put a book out and no one wants to read it? What if I chat to that handsome stranger at the bar and he doesn’t want to know? What if I do the Hokey Cokey and I’m putting my left leg in when everyone else is shaking it all about?
It’s all kind of ridiculous, really, but there we are. My brain is just wired that way, I don’t know why. Maybe it’s partly the working-class-background-and-associated-imposter-syndrome thing I’ve talked about before, the one that says' ‘Don’t show off, don’t make a fuss, don’t raise your head above the parapet.’ Or perhaps it’s the slightly black-and-white thinking to which I’m prone, telling me that either everyone will love me, or they’ll hate me, they’ll adore my shoes, or they’ll hate them, they’ll think I’m the best Hokey Cokier in the world, or the worst. There is no grey.
But. The only way to not make a mistake, is to not make anything, or so they say. It might be a cliché, but if so it’s one because it’s true. And I really believe that, I always have. Elizabeth Gilbert, in her book ‘Big Magic’, also said (and I’m paraphrasing because I don’t have the book to hand) sooner or later you have to decide whether you want to live a life characterised by curiosity, or one driven by fear.
I totally believe that, too. I mean, it’s obvious. But the fact is I’ve always struggled to put that advice into practice. I know nothing too exciting happens inside your comfort zone, and I do try to push outside it, but only in some things. And those things seem to follow no rhyme nor reason. Can I get on a stage in front of 200 people at a book festival? Hell yeah! Can I go on Danish breakfast TV, live? Certainly! Lead the way! Can I shout ‘House!’ when playing Bingo at my local pub in front of sixteen people, four of whom are my close friends? Oh my GOD no! That would be mortifying! And as for karaoke? I’m still noping the hell out of there. Forget it.
But, on January 1st this year, as I was sipping my sherry and contemplating the year to follow, I decided that it was about time I changed all that, or put some effort into doing so, at least. I mean, it’s all terribly narcissistic really, isn’t it? To think that anyone would care if I sang a bum note while belting out ‘Simply the Best’ (which I’ve just googled and found out is actually called ‘The Best’. Who knew?!) or, perhaps more likely, Friday, I’m in Love. To believe that someone would care if I was wearing the wrong shoes. And, when contemplating my reluctance to approach handsome strangers in bars, I realised something crucial. Rejection can sting perhaps, but it certainly isn’t fatal. And is a pre-emptive rejection, which is what a failure to even try is, really, any better? Or is it exactly the same? What the hell am I actually so scared of?
So, this year my resolution-that’s-not-a-resolution-in fact has been to make more mistakes. To get more things wrong. To be rejected more, in as many different aspects of life as possible, both private and professional. To realise that if you don’t ask you don’t get, and to be a tiny, tiny bit more reckless (not a lot, I mean I’m not talking about driving my car at 90mph while wearing a blindfold, but y’know it wouldn’t harm to try a different flavour of yogurt every once in a while).
So how’s it going? Well, I’d have to say quite well. I’m certainly not talking myself out of doing anywhere near as many things as I used to. I’m being braver, certainly socially but with my work as well. I’m taking more risks, not being quite so scared of failure and rejection. My comfort zone is expanding.
But it’s still an ongoing project. I still haven’t done karaoke and when my team were tied for first place in a trivia quiz recently and had to nominate someone to go up to answer the tie-break questions I was willing the floor to open up and take me down. Shyness, I guess, and not so easy to conquer. But the trend is upward, which is a weird thing to be pleased about when the initial challenge to myself was to ‘fail more’.
You should either be writing something worth reading, or living something worth writing.
But I’m going to stick with it. Maybe even take it up a notch. Why? The other week I read something. Again I’m paraphrasing, because I didn't note down where I read it, or who said it, or even the quote itself. But it was aimed at writers specifically, and was basically along the lines of ‘you should either be writing something worth reading, or living something worth writing.’
And yes, that resonated with me. Because it’s all about experience, isn’t it? And as a writer, how am I supposed to portray scenes and characters and feelings without experience, without putting plenty of fuel in the tank? On a simple level, how can I write with empathy about rejection, unless I’ve suffered some of it? (Believe me, though, this is not to say I’ve never suffered rejection! I’ve suffered an average amount, I’d say. Especially romantically.) How can I write about karaoke, unless I’ve had a go? Do I really know what it feels like to put my left leg in, my left leg out, in, out, in, out and shake it all about? It’s all material.
Maybe that’s just justification after the fact. But even if so, it’s a pretty cool way of tricking myself into being a bit braver. I’m not being reckless, this is research! That person at the bar said they’d rather have rusty nails driven into their genitalia than go on a date with me! Yay! I can put these feelings in a book, once I stop crying!
But even if you’re not a writer, surely more experience is a good thing? it’s better to living curiously than live afraid. ‘I wonder what would happen if I did this thing that scares me, rather than walked away?’ is surely a good question to ask. Worst case, it goes badly, you know it’s not something you want to try again in a hurry. Knowledge gained. Best case? You end up with a date, or realise you’re actually a pretty good singer when you put your mind to it, or it goes badly but you think, So what? That was still fun. I’m still glad I did it. At least you can give yourself a pat on the back for being brave.
So, how about you? What scares you? What would you like to do more of? Are you curious, or afraid?